


Nobody's Side

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Study, Choices, Conversations, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, M/M, Random Encounters, Roman-has-a-cabbie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only in Essen do you run away from not one, but two painful break-ups in short succession just to have your escape vehicle chauffeured by yet another old fling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Side

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Epic Basketball Game With Fraught Looks scene in episode 969. Big thanks and hugs to my super-speedy beta Alsha and her mad monster sentence chopping skills <333
> 
> For those who need a reminder, Randy is, of course, Roman's cabbie fling from the late 600s, who made an on-screen appearance in ep 673. You know, [this](http://i232.photobucket.com/albums/ee239/Aldiwitch/randy_zpse3058555.png) Randy. From [this scene](http://i232.photobucket.com/albums/ee239/Aldiwitch/randy_zpsbb3d7a1b.gif?t=1372208982). (You're welcome.)
> 
> ~

Roman slams the cab door behind him and slumps into the back seat, feeling so weary it might as well be the end of a journey rather than the beginning. He supposes it is both, in a way. Of the various periods in his life that he'd frankly consider horrible, the last week has been – not _the_ worst, perhaps, but certainly figuring among the top five. Possibly top three. It might just be the bronze medallist of the Most Nightmarish Weeks in Roman Wild's Life Championships.

"Airport, please." He closes his eyes, the better to resist the temptation to glance back. He can still hear them on the basketball court, Oliver ribbing Marian about a missed ball, Flo howling in triumph. Deniz is silent, but Roman can still see him, despite his closed eyes – in his old khakis and frumpiest t-shirt, dark eyes glaring surreptitiously from underneath flattened hair. Naturally he doesn't have the good grace to look anything but stunning even when draped in fugly clothes and misery.

Roman sighs and sinks deeper into the seat as the cab finally pulls out into the road. There's an absurd little stab of pain when the shouts of the players fade away behind him. Honestly. He should be glad to get away. Give them all a chance to recuperate. Give Deniz some space, maybe let him heal a little, breathe, think things over. Maybe even miss him-

 _Bullshit_.

"Roman?"

He blinks into the bright summer day, startled by the familiar address, and stares into a pair of cautiously pleased hazel eyes in the rear view mirror. "Long time no see."

"Randy!" he blurts, scrambling into an upright position. Only in Essen do you run away from not one, but two painful break-ups in short succession just to have your escape vehicle chauffeured by yet another old fling.

The man he once referred to as "my cabbie" grins at him, a bit nervously. "I wasn't sure you'd remember."

"Of course I remember," Roman scoffs, leaning forward. "I just didn't expect – it's been a while."

More than a year, in fact, since they did the awkward _We shouldn't do this anymore_ and _I need to sort my shit out_ thing and Randy requested a district transfer. Roman didn't exactly mind; at the time, the last thing he needed was yet another issues-laden transition from a casual arrangement into actual relationship territory, complete with coming-out drama and betrayed family and all the backlash. The timing was utterly rotten. As per usual.

Belatedly he realises Randy's talking. "…did wonder when I got dispatched to the Steinkamp Centre, but then what are the odds! I recently got an apartment downtown so I'm back on a lot of the old routes."

"Right." Roman's mind is whirring as he takes in as much of Randy as he can from his backseat perspective. He's looking good, sporting a summer tan, attractive stubble and a t-shirt tight enough to display his bulging biceps to best effect. A bit tired, perhaps, but still a prime specimen of tall, dark and handsome. The devil take tall, dark and handsome, and Roman Wild's eternal weakness for their ilk.

He clears his throat. "So how's life? How are the kids?" he asks, as ever bemused by the thought that this tall young man, who looks like an underwear model and has dance floor moves that can make any guy squirm in his tightening jeans, is actually a dad – complete with the house in suburbia, the Golden Retriever, the high school sweetheart wife.

Randy shrugs. "Fine, as far as I know. Hannah is walking now, and Leon just started preschool. I don't see them as much these days." He pauses, then adds, in a carefully bland voice, "Not since I told Stefanie I was gay." 

Roman makes a sympathetic noise. Randy and his wife had already broken up by the time he and Randy had their infrequent hook-ups, but his family was always a looming presence ¬– even that very first time when they were contorting themselves into unlikely positions in the back of this very cab. Randy's hair had been mussed and his eyes glazed as he raised his head from Roman's nipples to murmur, _"I'm technically married,"_ and Roman had dragged him back down, growling, _"I technically don't care."_

"How did she take it?" he asks, resisting the urge to reach out and offer a consoling touch. He remembers the last time they spoke, when he was showered and straight-shouldered and mostly relieved on his way out the door, before habit or empathy or some other ill-begotten instinct made him pause.

_"Randy, not that it's any of my business but… you should come clean. Tell her the truth."_

_"I know." Randy looked bleary-eyed and utterly lost, and Roman had to actively fight not to wander back into the hotel room, not to let himself get quagmired any deeper in this mess. "But what if she can't take it?"_

_"I think you underestimate her." He made a face. "Trust me, you don't want to hide all your life."_

Randy is checking the wing mirror, avoiding Roman's eyes for a moment. "It wasn't easy," he admits. "Lots of denial, lots of ugly shouting. Then she threw me out. It wasn't until the divorce went through that I even got regular visitation rights for the kids."

"I'm sorry," Roman says softly. No longer able to stop himself, he reaches out to put a hand on Randy's shoulder. Randy smiles a bit too brightly into the rear view mirror. 

"No help for it. Anyway, how are _you_ doing?" His eyes flicker back to Roman's more frequently than is perhaps strictly safe in terms of road attention. Roman looks down, fiddling with his emptied take-away coffee cup.

"I'm good. Well, there've been some professional changes. I'm not actively figure-skating anymore because I got too old and didn't want to realise I was too old so I took steroids and it all turned into a big mess but anyway, in the end I retired and got my trainer's licence so I'm still working at the Centre but as a trainer. I'm coaching two skaters for the next championships now, they could both be really good if they actually focused on skating instead of boys and competition, which, I'm really hoping they'll get over that one of these days, but yes, anyway, I'm on my way to Munich for a trainer seminar and I hope that when I get back, they'll-"

"Roman. Roman? Roman, good lord, breathe! You're babbling." Randy sounds amused and a little alarmed.

"Yes. Right. Sorry, it's just – a lot has happened." He leans back a bit, out of the direct line of eye contact, and rests his forehead against the window. He wishes suddenly and selfishly that someone else, anyone else, had answered this dispatch. Almost, he even wishes himself back home, to face his friends' universal scorn. He can keep his dignity intact around their blatant blame-dealing; dealing with kindness and the absence of moral judgement is somehow harder. When there's no one else around to do the judging, he has to do it himself, and that gets ugly fast.

As if sensing his mood, Randy doesn't say anything for a bit, and Roman tries to relax and distract himself with thoughts of work: Katja's routine, the seminar ahead, wondering what he'll do first when he gets there. (Call his boyfriend, usually. Damn.) 

"Ah, fuck."

Randy's curse pulls him away from the dreary view of industrial buildings flying by on the Autobahn, and the drearier contemplations of his mind. "What?"

"I need to refuel at the next petrol station. Sorry, I was supposed to do it before I picked you up but I thought I could make it last. When's your flight?"

Roman glances at his watch. "Not for another hour and a half. It's fine."

"I'll turn the meter off, of course."

"It's fine," Roman repeats, rearranging himself on his seat. Work is no good for distraction. Trips are no good. Even taxis are no good. This one just reminds him of Marc's face before he got into his cab: that desolate but determined shake of his head when Roman tried to make it easier on them both by lying, by pretending they'd been doomed from the get-go. Marc, always so damn intent on honesty, even if it slices them both to ribbons. He swallows, tries to force himself back to that other, sharper pain of Deniz's eyes, full of conflict and accusation, but it doesn't work; it all bleeds together and all he succeeds in is doubling the guilt and agony. You'd think he could focus now that the decision's made, but his heart, impossible to thwart throughout these desperate weeks, disagrees.

It'll have to learn, he supposes. Again.

"Won't be a minute," Randy promises, turning off the engine and opening the door. Roman notices belatedly that they've pulled into a petrol station. Across a parking lot, there's a café and a dusty little playground, the contours of the building blurring in the heat.

"Okay."

He watches Randy busying himself with the petrol pump, wide shoulders hunched over the hose. Then he frowns, perception sharpening as he suddenly recalls an earlier casual glimpse at the dashboard while they were driving. On impulse, he leans forward and turns the key Randy has left in the ignition. As the engine starts up, the fuel gauge needle promptly dashes towards the three quarters full mark. Roman narrows his eyes, then snorts and gets out of the car.

Randy has evidently been watching him, because he stands there looking sheepish, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, not even pretending to be filling up the car anymore.

"Need to refuel, huh?" Roman confronts him wryly. 

Randy shrugs one broad shoulder. "Maybe not the car, but…" He nods towards the café. "Got time for a coffee?"

"You could've just asked."

Randy's mouth quirks guiltily. "Yeah, but then you might've said no."

Roman knows he should be pissed off at the manipulation but he can't help but laugh at the utter lack of finesse. "Okay, fine. Coffee it is."

The café's nearly empty. They take a table near the back, where the windows open onto garden allotments and underused no man's land rather than the motorway. Roman studies Randy up close as he orders his coffee, taking advantage of the non-car perspective. He hasn't much changed, at least not to look at him. Hair still slightly too long, stubble stuck in between _no time to shave this morning_ and casually sexy three-day growth. He seems a little more confident, perhaps. Roman's gaydar isn't worth crap; he has no idea whether he'd peg Randy for one of their team if he met him today. Not that it matters. If he has _any_ special talent with guys, it's to make them realise they want him long past the point where he wants them back, or vice versa. Exorbitantly Shit Timing: The Very Special Talent of Roman Wild. He sighs and plays with sugar packets. __  
  
Randy starts off the conversation, talking about his single life with an ease that seems genuine if not without regrets. He amuses Roman with anecdotes from Homolulu's and a few of the other old haunts, sharing gossip about people Roman hasn't seen in too long. It makes him wonder how come he's neglected that part of his life for so long. How has he got to a point where his boyfriend ( _ex-boyfriend_ , his brain amends mercilessly) teasingly fakes a heart attack on those rare times when he can actually get Roman to agree to go out? He used to have a life that wasn't just work and his relationship. 

With an effort, he chases away the annoying gnats of self-reprehension buzzing around in his head. Like he doesn't have enough to beat himself up over. 

"Sounds like you're keeping busy. Anything serious in sight?"

Randy shakes his head. "Too much going on for something serious right now. Wouldn't be fair on the guy." He hesitates, then gives him a wry smile. "Besides, I maybe set the bar a bit too high after you."

Roman blinks, not sure what to say. He supposes he could educate Randy that the bar is really, _really_ not very high, and also appallingly skewed and off-centre, possibly structurally damaged and generally not something anyone should set a standard by. Then again, enough with the self-flagellation. If someone uninvolved wants to pretend he's something to aspire to, how much harm can it really do?

At least until that skewed bar falls on that someone's head and knocks them bloody, that is.

"What about you?" Randy suddenly asks, and when Roman looks up, he's met by a disconcertingly shrewd expression that has him thinking maybe Randy has come farther than he gave him credit for in the past year. "Relationship-wise, I mean. Any new developments?"

His first instinct urges him to dissemble, but Randy is looking at him with real interest and it's been so damned long since anyone's just asked and actually wanted to _know_ – someone who's on nobody's side, who hasn't already made up their mind to condemn or dismiss.

"Since we last met? Let me think…" Roman leans back in his chair. "Well, I got back with my ex…"

"Whoa, wait, _the_ ex? The _puppy eyes, illegally pretty, 19-bloody-years-old, 'That asshole will never change'_ ex?"

Randy sounds disproportionately amused, and Roman shoots him a glare. "How did that happen?"

"He changed," Roman says sourly, then shrugs and adds reluctantly, "We changed."

"Well, good for you."

Roman says nothing, and Randy cocks a brow. "Or not? Then what?"

"Then things were great and we were floating on fluffy pink clouds, except – well, there were issues but we were handling them, or so I thought. Then my ex blew into town-"

"Your ex? I thought you just said…"

"My other ex, okay? My first ex! First boyfriend, I mean. And first ex."

"I get the picture. I think."

"Yes. We were… there was unresolved stuff. And there was this ice musical, see…"

Time passes, and Roman talks. In the distance, smoke dances upwards from Essen's industrial chimneys. A brief shower pours down, leaving the view blurry through the grimy café window. Somewhere nearby, dogs bark.

Randy listens, his face full of sympathy, and there's no denying how good that feels, to have someone's attention without the judgement or the blanket solutions that don't fit. It makes Roman remember the way that Randy kissed: like there was no question about being welcome, no such thing as etiquette. Like he honestly didn't know not every guy likes to kiss. He remembers being charmed by that, enough to let this one get closer than a casual fuck; enough to meet him again, take an interest, ask questions.

Always with the damn questions. They've never failed to land him in trouble. Sometimes he wishes he could just learn to discard people, the way everyone he knows seems to have no trouble doing. Just up and finish and leave, instead of saving them in his contact list, stashing away their keepsakes, nursing the memories, chasing after _what if_ s. In their darker moments, he wonders if that's the ultimate force that keeps Deniz and him gravitating back towards each other long beyond the point where any sane person would have cut and run: the fact that both of them find it so impossible to let people go.

"Let me recap," Randy says, when Roman's finally finished. "Since I last saw you, you got back with your ex, were happy with your ex, then an earlier ex entered the picture and you started cheating on your other ex – current non-ex – with your previous ex, but you didn't want to break up with either of them, so you just kind of carried on until the shit hit the fan, with the result that both your previous-exes-previous-boyfriends are now once again your exes."

"Yes. That about covers it."

Randy laughs, a warm, rich sound, like spiced coffee and smoke. He's always had a lovely laugh. "Oh, Roman," he says, shaking his head. "You are one hot mess."

"Tell me something I don't know."

There's a long pause in which Randy just studies him intently, as if he's relearning Roman's face, trying to read between the lines. "And now?" he asks eventually.

Roman raises his hands, palms out. "Now I'm going on my trainers' seminar."

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah, but that one's no fun to answer." Randy keeps looking at him expectantly, though, not letting him off the hook, so he sighs and actually considers the question. "I fucked up and everyone got hurt. I guess now I figure out if there's a way past that."

"With Deniz."

"If he'll let me, with Deniz, yes," he confirms, seeing once again the deep shadows in Deniz's eyes as he looked after him, his face tense and entirely closed off, forgiveness an impossible venture. 

He did look after him, though; there is that much. 

"Anyway, I had better go catch that plane so I can actually, you know, come back eventually and try to fix my mess."

Randy insists on paying for the coffees – "for delaying you," he claims, but as Roman watches him settle the bill, bantering easily with the waitress, he has to wonder _why_ Randy delayed him; why he was there, today of all days, driving him away from the muddle he's created, asking the right questions at the right time. Whether he himself needed someone impartial to talk to or whether he just somehow sensed that Roman did, badly. 

It doesn't really matter, he supposes, but when they step back outside, he reaches out to grasp Randy's hand. "Thanks," he says warmly.

Randy shrugs awkwardly. There's something endearing about self-effacement in a man of his size and looks. "It was just coffee."

"Not for that," Roman says. The air is humid and smells of ozone, the recent downpour too brief to counter the heat. By contrast, Randy's hand is warm but pleasantly dry, the fingers strong but hesitant as they curl to meet Roman's grip. Randy is looking at him with an expression that's hard to read; there's a stillness between them suddenly that's heavier than the air, weighted by potential. In Randy's cautious eyes, Roman reads a hesitation that's not an invitation, not quite, but maybe could be if he encouraged it at all. They're standing very close. Randy's eyes flicker towards Roman's lips, then hastily away.

For a flash of a second, he even considers it, a solution so harebrained and radical it might just work: turning his back on the enormous mess he's left behind and taking a chance on something entirely different. A fresh start. He's reinvented himself before. He could do it again. It might be easy. Except…

Except he knows he'd never stop wondering. Except he'd screw it up, piling regrets and missed chances onto his new beginning until it grimed over with the soot of past failures. Except in some weird, fucked-up way, he likes what he has made of himself, damage and all, and doesn't want to throw it over. 

He doesn't _do_ easy; just never really got the hang of it.

Instead of tugging on Randy's hand to draw him closer, he gives it a brief squeeze, then lets go. 

Randy takes a step back almost immediately, re-establishing distance. He clears his throat as he walks around the car to the driver's side. "Airport, then?" There's a faint flush in his cheeks, but his voice sounds steady.

Roman nods."Yes, please. But when I get back, we could maybe… have coffee more often? As friends," he adds quickly. "If you want to, I mean. No pressure."

Across the roof of the cab, Randy is smiling at him. It's a real smile, honestly pleased. 

"I'd like that. I'll give you my number when we get to the-"

"Still got it," Roman interrupts dryly, and just shrugs at Randy's incredulously raised brows. "I hang on to stuff."

Which might not be the worst thing, he guesses, as long as there are people worth hanging on to.


End file.
